


Danger Illustrated

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Joker (2019)
Genre: AU: oh fuck there's TWO of them, Assault, Beating the Shit Out of an Abuser, Bullying, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Protective, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:07:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23107465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: There's risks worth taking. Violence that feeds the soul.
Relationships: Arthur Fleck & Joker (DCU), Arthur Fleck/Joker (DCU)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33
Collections: Anywhere I Lay My Head I Will Call My Home





	Danger Illustrated

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mr-finch (soubriquet)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soubriquet/gifts).



> While we're sharing from the AU, thought you kids might enjoy a taste of babby Joker learning about what's good.

Lurking in the shadow of a stairwell in Fleck’s tenement building, Joker tries to keep himself at ease. 

He’s cased the building, knows Gotham well enough to know that no one in this area is likely to do more when it comes down to it than bolt their doors and maybe call the cops. Everyone had their own problems, things they didn’t want complicated with police involvement, and the cops were slow as dog shit to respond to poor folks in the East Side anyway.

Skipping class this afternoon was worth it, though a risk. Hell, all of this was a risk. His criminal record was sealed, and it would stay that way, wouldn’t be taken into consideration when he enlisted, providing he graduated and didn’t get into any more legal trouble.

Assault and battery at seventeen on a grown adult? They might not even try that case as minor. If he gets caught doing this, he could end up in Arkham. He’d never be allowed to enlist, he’d never make it out of this shitty, depressing city.

But he thinks about Arthur’s face the other day, the bruise blooming along his jaw. He thinks about the way he said who left that bruise, how telling it could be, that kind of such forced casualness. 

He thinks about Arthur, hurting, and he feels that rage kindle back up, fury like flame in his veins, and he lights another cigarette, continuing to wait.

Yesterday evening he'd gone out and bought a sketchbook for the kid. 

That had been the start of their hanging out, getting to be friends. Joker didn't have friends -- he hadn't had many when he was little, and it had only gotten worse as he got older. Never able to invite anyone over for fear of them meeting his drunk mother or hearing his father lay into him or his mom. Going to school in dirty clothes, never in fashion. Kids had a nose for vulnerability, and when he'd refused to be bullied, they decided to be scared of him instead.

After getting sent to juvie, getting expelled from his last school, the situation really hadn't improved. Arthur was the first and only person to actively enjoy his company, not that anyone else had deigned try. He didn't _want_ anyone else to, was the thing -- he liked Arthur. 

So, since Arthur's old sketchbook got totaled by some meathead prick, Joker had shelled out for a new one. It was a nice enough gift to make up for the fact that he had an ulterior motive to it, needing an excuse to get inside Arthur's building during the day so he could figure out the best place to lie in wait for the asshole he was looking to introduce to his slugger.

Two people have gone past him tonight so far, both heading in. It's dark, getting late -- soon, someone is going to get nervous enough to call about the Suspicious Person lurking on the stairs. If it gets too much later, he'll have to change his plans, figure something else out. 

But, it's a weeknight. Work night, school night. Not too much foot traffic, people wanting to be rested for whatever they did in the morning. No one was going to call the cops if he looked like he belonged, as non-threatening as he could manage, standing over six-foot tall and carrying an aluminum baseball bat. 

Fifteen more minutes. He'll wait fifteen more minutes, and then --

Above him, three floors up -- Fleck's floor -- a door slams open. Feet steadily pound the steps. Joker puffs on his cigarette, letting his hand obscure his face as he draws in smoke, relaxes with the hit of nicotine. Listens to the feet on the stairs, one man, no company. Possibly drunk, or maybe just slow, each step solid and heavy. 

He watches as the guy passes, recognizes him from the glimpse he'd seen when Fleck's mother had cracked the door and let him give her the sketchbook. Maybe not the best identification process for the punishment he planned to dole out, but Fleck's mother had reeked of a certain cheap perfume and this guy had the same dusty floral scent clinging to his shirt.

The guy doesn't spare him a glance, huffing as he rounds the landing to the final set of steps. Joker flicks his cigarette away, exhaling smoke as he lifts his hat and slides the cheap plastic mask in place, tapping his bat to the heel of his boot as he steps out of the shadow.

"Hey, shit for brains," he says, and the asshole really turns, actually steps forward _into_ the swing of Joker's bat, so when it connects with his cheekbone the hit sounds as solid as a home run. Even in the flickering, yellow light of the tenement hall, Joker can see blood fly from the asshole's mouth, and he watches with something like glee as the guy stumbles back, foot sliding off a step, ankle folding, and he bounces backward down the steps, hitting the railing once and then the cracked tile below.

It's honestly, really, one of the prettiest sounds Joker thinks he's ever heard.

Whooping, the sound senseless, wrathful glee, he leaps off the landing and over the fucker's prone form, landing beside him and kicking his steel-toes into the guy's ribs, listens to him cough out something like a sob. When the guy gets his elbows under him, trying to get up, Joker hauls back with the bat, cracks it over the fucker's shoulders, and feels the floor shake with the force of him hitting the tile again.

There's not time to work the bastard over the way he'd like. He dances around the guy, hits him a few more times, for the fun and satisfaction of it, to get the point across, if the busted cheekbone and ambush hadn't done the trick yet. 

Eventually, a few minutes in, the sonofabitch stops trying to get up, gurgling bloody-mouthed pleas for mercy. Joker crouches down, seizing the fucker by the hair to pull his head up from the ground, and shoves his mask up just enough that his words won't be muffled.

"Stay the fuck away from Fleck," he snarls, and then slams the fucker's face into the tile one more time, feeling the skin slide in blood already pooled there. 

When he looks up, offering a cursory glance around, he doesn't see anyone watching. Doubtlessly someone will have heard though; the walls here are thin, and it would be stupid to linger. 

He steps out into the muggy Gotham night, no rush, mask off, and dumps his bat and mask in the trash piled in an alley four blocks away before doubling back to find his car. He feels good, better than he has in weeks.

Feels satisfied, feels, finally, like he's found a reason to keep breathing.


End file.
